A Hobby
by PostlewaitBoe
Summary: Idle hands are the devil's playthings, but devotion to ones craft can be just as fatal as soaking at the bottom of a bottle. One's demons will only grow when ignored, but who can help a man who specializes in melting into shadows to find himself?
1. Chapter 1

"I am not sure that I can do this." The sentence was low and shaky, barely perceptible amongst the chorused jumbling of road, wheel and horse hooves. A sigh, weighty and tired, quickly followed.

"Didn't we just talk about this but a block ago?" breathed a gentleman of middle years. He was solidly built, his clothes cut cleanly, his hands hard from years of work. The darkness beneath his sharp blue eyes seemed to deepen as it became apparent that his charge would yet again wish to wallow in her own insecurities. He couldn't help another sigh as he took in the sight of his niece. Girlish eyes peered shyly from the beneath a delicate curled fringe both intreating and demanding.

"When you barged into my room last night trembling and breathy I thought it was the insecurities of youth, but you just want me to feather your hat and I can't bring myself to do it", the man replied solidly. He did not miss the way she broke eye contact: the shift and jitter of having been caught red handed.

"I am simply nervous Uncle Bryan", she breathed halfheartedly. Her upturned noise crinkled as here eyes locked on her faint reflection of the carriage window.

"You should be if you are using an old coger's words to make yourself feel better." The tart glare sent the man's way made him snicker.

"That's better, I was beginning to wonder what demon had possessed you to make you so meek. Almost managed to make yourself out the picture of a real lady." The young girl's lip curled in disgust at the mere idea. This quickly turned into a giggle as she once again looked into her uncle's clear, amused eyes. Both parties relaxed into the comradery, and for a few moments the sense of excitement that had accompanied the young woman at the start of this adventure seized her with such ferocity that her feet began to shimmy and dance with the excess spark of energy. This was until the Populaire came into view. The woman's pale skin turned ashy. Her hands began to sweat.

"It could be all for naught" she murmured, the sound coming from a tight place in her stomach, as her eyes locked upon the imposing structure of the Opera house.

"Say the word and I could turn the carriage and it really would 'be all for naught'" Bryan commented flatly with an upward quirk of his lips. A moment stretched on in silence and the tiny woman's fidgeting only became more pronounced. Frayed nerves finally gave, and the man quickly traversed the tiny space of the carriage and seized the young woman's shoulder.

"Nanna, take yourself together!" He admonished, his ascent thickening in his agitation. So much so that the sentence would sound garbled to a foreign ear. Blinking rapidly the young lady finally arrested her gaze to her Uncle. Her eyes bounced from wrinkle to wrinkle around his face. They were a rarity on his person, only choosing to make their appearance when Bryan was well and truly frustrated.

"I am sorry Uncle, I just want this so bad!" She exclaimed with violent fervor. Bryan's face relaxed; his wrinkles winking out of existence one by one. Youth was such a tiring thing. Any given moment could promise one's death or birth. He for one was quite glad to be years past such an exhausting existence. A sharp rap upon the ceiling alerted them to the carriages arrival.

"A moment" Bryan called in response keeping his gaze on his niece who had begun to chew her lip in her anxiety. Taking a deep soothing breath, the gentleman relaxed into the seat next to his charge with a faint smile curling his lips. Softening his grip on her shoulder, he turned her gently to face him.

"Nanna" he called softly, in much the same manner that one might coax a tiny child or wild animal. Her bright hazel eyes met his desperately, holding his gaze like a life line within a hurricane.

"The road you have taken has been riddle with trials, you have gone against the grain, sailed across the great Atlantic, travelled hundreds of kilometers and braved over a kilometer through a storm by foot to be here." Nanna smirked impishly at this, her mind drifting to the fateful evening her hurried feet had taken her from the family home to the harbor.

Her family had been sitting in the parlor with a handful of her father's business affiliates. Not an uncommon scene for a Thursday evening. Men were strewn comfortably on couches and chairs with cups of bourbon in hand. Her father had lit his favorite cobb pipe and was now seeping large dragon like tuffs of honeyed smoke. The fire was lit in the hearth, and Nanna was sat across from her mother with sketchbook in hand. The rain outside had worked itself into the first heaving cries of thunder and lightning. It was then one of the younger men had had observed to the room how the color of Nanna's hat suited her, and how she should be occupying her thoughts with more domestic matters than art. He was a pretty fair looking young man with a stable income and prospects, but his presumptuous ways spoilt Nanna's humor. Here mother had just flashed the young woman a look that had her biting back her quicksilver tongue, when the doorbell rang. Confusion fell upon the gathered party. It was, after all, rather late to be called upon. A maid appeared promptly after, telegram in hand. Immediately Nanna's mother had jumped to receive the note. It was not common knowledge that her father could not read, and that was just how the family liked to keep it. Silence stretched another moment and then a smile bloomed on her mother's pretty face.

"What is it Nickerbackers?" My father inquired tenderly with his favorite pet name. Some of my father's colleagues shuffled uncomfortably at the intimacy but most smiled having become familiar with the closeness of Nanna's parents.

"Oh, nothing of interest to us" the petite matron intoned in a sing song voice, "but it may interest someone that their favorite uncle has just made port." Nanna was on her feet in an instant.

"Do you mean, have you thought, when did you-" the young woman stopped mid-sentence allowing for a calming breath to ease the agitation that had beset her body into action. Another breath to gather her thoughts. All of which was observed by some rather bewildered businessmen.

"Does this mean that you have given your consent?" Nanna questioned looking first into her mother's eyes, which had begun to sparkle with tears, and then to her father's smiling face.

"This place hasn't anything to offer you" her father stated simply. The careful constructed veneer of calm snapped out of existence as Nanna sprang into her father's arms, snatching her mother along the way. The moment was brief but the young lady cherished the memory of her parents' arms around her, and the warmth of their kisses on her cheeks. The rush through the forest that came after was a blur of cold and wet in Nanna's mind. Her quest to enlist her uncle as a chaperon had relit the spark of a dream that small minded people with their small-town ways had previously stamped out. Later her parents would tease her for being to excited to have the thought to call for their carriage, but, as her grandmother would say, it was all water under the bridge now.

As her uncle had said, it had been hard. The taunts, the jabs, the worry of spinsterdom, the lack of opportunity and finally stepping onto that boat and away from the loving home of her family. Nanna couldn't let it all be undone.

"You ready now _Glefs_?" Her uncle asked. An answer was unnecessary as he took in the set of her mouth and hard gleam of her eyes. A smile split his face to reveal hearty yellow teeth.

"Bout fucking time" he declared throwing opening the carriage door much to the coachman's horror. Nanna was quick to follow, but soon to the lead. Her steps were large for one so small, here head was high and her portfolio was tucked comfortably to her side. Bryan followed a few steps behind, his steps slow and his gaze observational. It was funny, but the Populaire looked like it was almost shrinking away from the lace and satin cased force charging its way.

Glefs: Norwegian for jaw-snap. It is a nickname for someone who is quick to snap at someone, or quick to emotion.

Nanna: Roughly pronounced Nawn-naawn


	2. Chapter 2

Woosh. Crash. Shimmer.

Woosh. Crash. Shimmer.

The bottle was hefty in his sloppy hand. Arching, release, smooth and practiced.

Woosh. Crash. The shimmer of small shards sprinkling the ground with an almost melodic, music box sound. The fragments laid mingled around their many still intact compatriots which lay sprawled across the hard, stone floor in a chaotic labyrinth of glutinous self-medication. The man has long gone past the point of being able to stand, so he slumps amidst the wreckage. It's almost pitch black save for a few flames that cling to the ground. They are the last remaining survivors of what had once been a dozen lit candles. The man knew he needed to crawl his way out of the little hovel; to the part of the cavern he had reserved for strictly living. His stomach had begun to churn and even in his current state he still had the better judgment to avoid mixing vomit and broken glass. It was not a mistake to be born twice.

The first few weeks after everything had come crashing down he had stormed into his little 'haven' with wild abandon. No place was off limits to his wanton violence and indulgent wallowing. From safety bunker to hell hole; the place descended into such a state of filth and riotous disrepair that not even maggots dared to squirm their way from the rot of food long forgotten. The litter of smashed boxes and chairs that lined the wall some of the last remaining testaments of this savage period.

The only thing that forced the man to wrest any form of control over his existence was the tingling tendril tucked into his chest that whispered of the dream that followed the severance of one's mortal coil. For in the sleep of death what dreams may come? It was this thought that now led him to this moment in this particular part of the bunker. Just a crook in the darkest corner of the stone vault, but space enough to put all the rage and heartbreak that beats down on the hopeless and forlorn.

Allowing gravity to do the work the man collapses on his front. His heavy pants echo hollowly across the glistening stone walls as his arms flay and claw; pulling his bulk across the ground and away from the sparkling wasteland. Bottles ring and scrape as they are viciously shoved to the side. Glass crunches under hand. The piecing is a bright spot in his head: clarity in the fog of his stupor. Red handprints join the old ones upon the floor.

It's cold in the main cavern. The man knows he should light a fire, try to sleep, but that shifty hazing world would be littered with reminders. It could be the sound of her voice or something that was that perfect shade of brown: the brown of her eyes. He shouldn't, but he is shivering and drunk; the last tendrils of judgement and self-control shattered and sparkling on the floor of his hovel. A few moments of stillness are allowed before the man slowly brings himself to his feet. Standing upright is a task too big for the moment, so he sets out for his matches stooped and arms spread. His legs are sea legs caught on dry land. He wibbles and wabbles with drink loosened joints. The difficulty of the task sparking anger; anger at the matches, anger at the drink, anger at her, anger at her fair lover. It broods with every wobbling step until the cavern his ringing with ragged, jagged noises that he doesn't realize are coming from his mouth.

He can't do it anymore. Mentally grabbing the reins of his will, he steers his jangling husk to bed. Wiggling into the mound of blankets he curls into himself pressing the good half of his face into the softness of a pillow. Silence. The moment freezes in the stillness. The pillow grows moist as he realizes that sleep will not come again this night. He can't make himself move. He can't fix this. He doesn't want to think. He doesn't want to feel, or remember. Do. Cry. Kill himself. Hate. Mourn. Breath. None of this. Nothing could fix this. Nothing could bring him happiness.

The anger ripples through him again. It was never far. It had been and was still his life blood. What else could sustain one robbed unjustly of all of humanities sparkle and promise?

He wanted to hurt someone. HE wanted to make them feel that hurt. Not just anyone though, everyone. A smile cracked the man's half face, casting his already frightful visage in a fiendish light. After selfishly putting him here, they should sacrifice a few precious moments of their lives to experience his hell. It should be done in fire. Yes, a fiery hell. Cliché perhaps, but it was too deliciously befitting to avoid. The man's eyes had begun to droop as his mind wound lazily around the image of flames pouring from the Populaire windows.


End file.
